


opinions and opium

by boom_goes_the_canon



Series: rationalism and Romanticism [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bickering, Canon Era, First Meetings, Fluff, Getting Together, Literature, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Jean Prouvaire/Bahorel, Recreational Drug Use, Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: Combeferre gently loosens his grip, and maybe he lingers longer than he is supposed to. Prouvaire’s skin is soft, but his fingers are callused, and his fingernails are blunt and short. He has a freckle near his third knuckle. “I actually haven’t read anything of his. This is the first.”Prouvaire is still smiling when he lets go of Combeferre’s arm. “Ah, so you are one of the uncultured.” There’s a hint of frost in his tone.Combeferre sputters in indignation. “I’m sorry?”
Relationships: Combeferre/Jean Prouvaire
Series: rationalism and Romanticism [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890667
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	opinions and opium

Combeferre takes a deep breath and pulls the book off the shelf with practiced ease, his eyes darting around to check if anyone catches him doing so. He’s sure that dozens, if not hundreds more will soon pass through this particular bookseller’s shop and purchase this exact same book. He still adjusts his grip to cover the name on the spine.

He wasn’t familiar with the works of this particular author, only buying the book in order to further an argument with Bahorel. Bahorel, man of countless riots and brawls, had slammed the latest installment of the author’s works on Combeferre’s usual table and declared that it made him bawl like the monarchy.

“Truly?” Combeferre had said, prodding the book as if it was explosive.

“If I lie, let me become a lawyer,” Bahorel had responded with a strange hitch in his throat. It was serious, then.

Naturally, Combeferre had to test this for himself, but that still didn’t get rid of the vaguely illicit feeling in his gut.

Which was absurd. Combeferre was perfectly capable of committing illegal deeds. He was part of a secret society of Republicans, he had once paid a resurrection-man to acquire him a corpse when none were available for the upcoming examinations, and he had illegally made gunpowder. Twice. A mildly salacious book shouldn’t be able to faze him.

But here he was, about to stand in line for a book that was perfectly legal in all circles, and his face was hot and he felt like he was about to catch fire. And to make matters worse, he could recognize the person in front of him in the line. It was Jean Prouvaire, who he was quite unfamiliar with, and he did not want their first formal meeting to be here.

Combeferre had long held the belief that Romantics, like other exotic creatures, communicated their intent through their bright colors and patterns, like a more poetic kind of poisonous frog. Bahorel, with his energetic waistcoats, was strong enough proof of that, and it was through sheer luck that he had turned out to be the reasonable sort of Romantic. It was luck that Combeferre had done nothing to earn, and he was forever waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So, logically, when Jean Prouvaire started arriving at meetings, Combeferre steered clear of him. His hat was spangled with multicolored embroidered stars, he had pink flamingo feathers sewn into his sleeves and hems, and his medieval doublet and trousers were a violent shade of indigo. Combeferre had no wish to strain his eyes further by gazing, despite the poet himself being a more than acceptable visage to gaze upon.

Today, however, Prouvaire was dressed quite tamely, and the soft green of his waistcoat brought out the color of his eyes and his hair, curling lightly on his shoulders. Combeferre doesn’t understand why he chose to add dead flowers to his lapel or why he seemed to be carrying an entire femur in his right trouser pocket, but he was certainly easier on the eyes. His freckles are stark against his pale skin, and his cheeks are stained a very becoming pink.

Ahem.

“Oh, excuse me,” Prouvaire says, having stumbled backwards from what Combeferre hypothesized was a gust of emotion. “I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s quite all right,” Combeferre murmurs, craning his neck to see what books are in Prouvaire’s arms. “I believe we’ve met, actually, through Bahorel.” He coughs.

“Dear Bahorel,” Prouvaire says, his voice light with affection. Something dark swirls in Combeferre’s insides at the smile on his face. Bahorel had not mentioned his relationship to Prouvaire when he first arrived at the Musain, though perhaps that was a polite evasion.

“Yes, you are friends, I believe?”

“Oh, I suppose you would have called it that, in more conservative circles,” Prouvaire says, tittering. “It was considerably more scandalous than that.” Combeferre feels his cheeks grow hot.

“Um, he didn’t mention—”

“—He helped me acquire my lobster, Lancelot du Lac.”

“That’s nice of him,” Combeferre says stiffly.

“We liberated him from the nets down at the beach.”

“I’m sure it was very entertaining.”

Prouvaire smiles, glancing down at Combeferre’s arms. “It was. Oh, are you picking up that book too?”

“Ah, yes.”

“What do you think of his earlier works?” Prouvaire’s eyes light up, like sunlight. “Oh, about the moving passage in the second book, with the light imagery? I thought it was particularly well-done, although I much preferred the _memento mori_ in the rotting apple basket Marie-Claudette forgets.” He clutches at Combeferre’s arm, and his smile is blinding in its intensity. He has a gap in his incisors.

Combeferre gently loosens his grip, and maybe he lingers longer than he is supposed to. Prouvaire’s skin is soft, but his fingers are callused, and his fingernails are blunt and short. He has a freckle near his third knuckle. “I actually haven’t read anything of his. This is the first.”

Prouvaire is still smiling when he lets go of Combeferre’s arm. “Ah, so you are one of the uncultured.” There’s a hint of frost in his tone.

Combeferre sputters in indignation. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, well, you really should be. Don’t worry. There’s hope for you yet.” Prouvaire embraces him and pats him on the head in a patronizing manner, and a small part of Combeferre’s brain whispers that if Prouvaire had done that earlier in the conversation, before the insults, he might have really enjoyed it. As it was now, he was too angry to think of anything else.

“I’ll have you know—”

“’—No, no, you don’t know anything yet,” Prouvaire says, shaking his head mournfully. “Tell you what, once you’ve read it, you must give me your opinion on it. Here’s my address.” He rummages in his pockets and brings out a much-rumpled piece of paper. He presses it into Combeferre’s hand. “I hope you come to your senses.” And he drops a few francs on the counter of the bookseller—when did they reach the front of the line?—and sweeps away, waving the femur in triumph, with his annoyingly shapely freckled nose buried in the book. Combeferre is left reeling.

The bookseller clears his throat. “Are you purchasing that, monsieur?”

Combeferre looks up. “Oh, yes. Please give me a minute?” he says, because he’s a man with a healthy respect for civilities like not being patronizing over books or not leaving after an argument.

He buys all of the author’s works.

He doesn’t remember how he manages to lug the enormous books back to his rooms. He does vaguely remember knocking over his roommate, muttering apologies, and shoving a half-dissected corpse off the dining table to make room.

His roommate peers over his shoulder. “Is that—”

“—Not a word,” Combeferre says, reaching for his quill and one of the books. He winces as he cracks the spine. “We will never speak of this incident again.”

“Sure.”

“I just need to prove someone wrong.”

Sometimes, Combeferre hates his roommate. Especially in times like these, when he doesn’t need another judging eye. “Of course you do.”

\---

Combeferre climbs the steps to Prouvaire’s room two at a time, heedless of the noise his shoes make against the creaking floorboards. It is midnight, he should not be doing this, and Joly would scold him for being out in the cold without a hat or a scarf, but the anger that still burns inside his head demands it.

He will knock on Prouvaire’s door, present him with superior analyses on the books with clear refutations on the subjects Prouvaire spoke of, and leave, preferably after the man had apologized and asked his forgiveness.

(And Prouvaire might invite him inside, his treacherous brain thinks, for something warming and intoxicating, and would probably insist he spend the night, due to the ferocity of the weather, because he knows that Prouvaire is not a cruel soul. It would be quite unreasonable for Prouvaire to make him sleep on the floor, due to the cold, and so he would be invited to share the man’s bed, just for tonight, as the storms rage overhead—)

Combeferre raps smartly at Prouvaire’s door, and pauses to adjust his cravat, because it would be undignified to look disheveled, and quite rude, to boot. Combeferre is not rude. He is a delight, and he will prove it. He would not make an enemy of a man he had just met, and he certainly would not insult him.

A lazy puff of smoke accompanies the opening of the door, and Prouvaire appears. He is languid and loose, from his hair to his bare feet, and he has a pipe in his hand. “Yes? May I help you?” he says sweetly, not acknowledging the anger on Combeferre’s face.

Combeferre thrusts his essays into Prouvaire’s free hand, clearing his throat against the smoke. “These are my observations on the series, including my thoughts on the symbolism and meaning behind the stories. I would like to direct your attention to the parts written in blue ink. They are refutations of your statements.”

Prouvaire runs a finger carefully along the edges of the papers, flicking through them with ease. “Well, you’ve certainly come at a fortunate hour. Come inside, I’ll make you some tea and I’ll introduce you to Jean-Marie.”

Combeferre steps inside, stiffly. The smoke is thicker inside, and the scent of plant life is overpowering. Plants, in various states of life and death, hang from the ceiling and are strewn over the windowsills. The walls are covered with strangely patterned paper, and the furniture is old and well-worn, though upholstered in garish cloth. Bookshelves, well-curated but cluttered, line one of the walls. “Jean-Marie?” he manages.

“She’s a lovely thing. Give me a moment or two to wake her.”

The sick dark feeling swirls again somewhere in Combeferre’s chest at the words. “I wouldn’t want to bother…”

“No bother at all,” Prouvaire says, disappearing behind a Japanese screen. Combeferre sits on the sofa and looks warily around for signs of a lobster. A small pile of books sits on one of the end tables, and he flips through one of the thinner ones.

When Prouvaire comes back into the room, Combeferre is halfway through the third chapter of an interesting treatise on women’s rights. Prouvaire sets a pot of round yellow flowers in front of Combeferre and waits expectantly, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“…They are very nice flowers,” Combeferre says, after a long silence.

“This is Jean-Marie,” Prouvaire says, rotating the pot to reveal the name painted in red on the side in curling script. “She is the best of our merry band.”

“Ah, yes,” Combeferre says, adjusting his glasses. The dark feeling in his chest dissolves, and he bends to examine the flowers closely. “I see.”

“No, you don’t, or else you haven’t noticed your glasses have fogged,” Prouvaire says, prodding at the offending object. “Handkerchief?”

“I have my own,” Combeferre says, trying to regain his dignity. Prouvaire frowns and sits beside him, staring with wide eyes as he cleans his glasses. Combeferre feels absurd. It does not require much skill, to clean glasses, but he fidgets self-consciously under Prouvaire’s gaze, and his hands slip more than once.

“Tea!” Prouvaire exclaims just as Combeferre replaces his glasses. “I must make tea. You make yourself comfortable. Smoke a pipe.”

Combeferre declines, on principle. He feels quite out of his bearings, and mixing that mental state with hashish and opium did not seem a particularly smart course of action. Prouvaire shouts to him as he heads for the stove and boils the water and gathers leaves and twigs from a pot, and so he responds. Prouvaire is still of the opinion that the third book in the series is superior to the rest, and Combeferre feels the need to defend his side.

“—and so, I believe that in conjunction with the plot hole brought up by the vanishing toothpick and several contradictory descriptions in the appearance of the gardens, that should be enough to sour any casual reader,” Combeferre finishes as Prouvaire sets a tea tray in front of him.

“I fear there has been some miscommunication, monsieur Combeferre,” Prouvaire says, pouring two cups of weak-looking tea. “I think you believe I have been rude to you deliberately.”

“Haven’t you?” Combeferre says, picking up his teacup (plain and white, in contrast with Prouvaire’s richly decorated one) and taking a sip. The tea tastes peculiar, and he makes a face.

“Oh no. Forgive me.” Prouvaire shifts closer to him. “I thought that we were friends, and so I was harsh with you.”

“Pardon?”

“It is simply horrible to have to bend beneath arbitrary rules of etiquette made by stuffy old men,” Prouvaire says. “And, well, my friends understand that, and allow me to be as rude as I want in front of them, because they know how it stifles me in other company. I thought, because we were kindred spirits about the state of society, that you would understand this without me telling you.” He blushes to the roots of his hair. “I was wrong.”

“It’s quite all right,” Combeferre says, draining his teacup. His anger is quickly draining away, replaced by warmth and contentment and a different sort of distressing feeling.

“Thank you. I knew you would understand.” Prouvaire beams, and sips his own tea. A few drops crawl down his chin, and he wipes them away. “Now, I believe you had some essays for me to examine?”

Combeferre nods. “You set them down beneath, ah…Jean-Marie.”

Prouvaire bends to retrieve them, revealing a tear in his shirt that exposes his side. He has freckles on his ribs too. “You would be all right with me ripping your arguments to shreds?”

“I would welcome it,” he says truthfully. “It is the best way to strengthen my own arguments.”

Prouvaire laughs, producing a quill from underneath the couch and a pair of large glasses, perching them on the end of his nose. It looks, quite frankly, absurdly good on him. “I suppose you enjoy proving people wrong.”

Combeferre flushes, and nods.

“How _irrational_ of you,” Prouvaire says gleefully.

“I would thank you to shut your mouth, monsieur Prouvaire.”

Prouvaire holds out his hand, and Combeferre lays his own on top, because it seems like the thing to do. Prouvaire presses the pipe into his hand and folds his fingers over the stem. “Please, call me Jehan.”

\---

Combeferre wakes up groggy, batting at the sunlight in his eyes as though he could push it away. He feels rather like someone had subjected him to taxidermy without his permission, and without checking for his pulse. His mouth is cottony.

Jehan is just starting to stir, which is just as well, since Combeferre’s arm is stuck under Jehan’s torso, and his legs are entwined with Combeferre’s. Combeferre notes with distress that Jehan does not seem to be wearing a shirt, nor trousers, but he does have three waistcoats on. He has a cravat twisted into fearful tightness around his elbow, and a turban on his left foot.

“What happened?” Combeferre wonders aloud, prodding Jehan into wakefulness. Jehan, either as a function of sleep deprivation or some lingering effects from last night, lunges for Combeferre and plants a kiss somewhere near his browbone.

“I think…oh, my head,” Jehan cries and presses both hands to his temple as though holding it together. “Oh, all the good gods, deliver me.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and Combeferre rubs his back.

“You need water,” he decides. He tries to get up and realizes that he has no shoes on, and that he has a sleeve plumper attached to his thigh. He wrestles it off and stalks through the room to find water. He decides against the water in Jehan’s watering can and the green-tinged water in a tank in the corner of the room (Lancelot du Lac’s tank, most likely. Combeferre wonders where the actual lobster is.). He eventually finds a pitcher secreted away between a treatise on women’s education and a copy of Dante’s Inferno and pours Jehan a glass.

“What happened?” Jehan croaks, as he accepts the glass. “I remember that I had finally convinced you to smoke, and you had…” He blushes. “…quite an interesting reaction.”

Combeferre flushes and attempts to look dignified. “We spoke about what qualified as ‘undressed’ and ‘dressed.’ If I remember correctly, I hypothesized about the number of clothing items, but you, ah, summarily proved me wrong.”

“The waistcoats,” Jehan says.

“The waistcoats. And I am at a loss to explain the cravat.”

“You were demonstrating how to tie a tourniquet. You said it might save my life one day.”

Combeferre examines the knot. “Well, I failed horribly.”

Jehan giggles, looking somewhat restored. “I thought so.”

“And the turban?”

“Something about the oppression of the people,” Jehan says, waving the offending turban. “Combeferre, you were a horrible tease last night.”

Combeferre makes a face.

“Oh, do not try to deny it. You with your scientific names and your hieroglyphs and your, your—” Jehan is standing now, hands on his hips. He does not even come up to Combeferre’s chin. “—your endless knowledge!”

“What?” Combeferre says.

“You told me last night that you had attended lectures on the nature of light, and knew the function of the carotid arteries. And you soliloquized about the proper method of dissection.” Jehan makes frustrated fists in the air. “I want to crack your skull open and have your brain mounted in my living room.”

“…Thank you?”

‘It would make such a conversation piece. Perhaps in a stained-glass jar of some sort,” Jehan muses. He pounces on Combeferre in the same minute, hands firmly situated on either side of Combeferre’s head. “You madden me.”

“And you, as well,” Combeferre says, and has the pleasure of seeing Jehan’s eyes sparkle.

Combeferre has always thought of kissing in rather abstract terms, and his first thought is for the muscles required in the action, and the mechanism of the jaw. Jehan soon distracts him, but a part of him is still naming the bones of the hand required to fix Jehan to him just so.

The door slams open and a woman stalks in, and Jehan detaches himself from Combeferre like a leech confronted with open flame.

“Oh, carry on,” she huffs. “I will make myself scarce.”

Combeferre rushes to greet her, well aware of the spectacle the two of them both make. Madame Louer has a frown permanently cast into her face and sleeves that span her waist. Her face unbends a little when he introduces himself as a student of medicine, and she casts an unsubtle wink in Jehan’s direction.

“My son went into medicine,” she says, sniffing a little. “He comes home late at night, blood everywhere, lungs in his hat…”

Combeferre nods sympathetically.

“…but he’s a good boy at heart.”

“I’m sure he is, madame.”

“Now, you take care of yourselves, you hear?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Don’t go around breaking furniture, and plates, and bones,” she says. Combeferre casts a helpless glance at Jehan, who is purple in the face and is mouthing ‘Bahorel.’

“I assure you we will not, madame.”

She sniffs. “Good.” She straightens a few items on one of the tables before leaving the room and slamming the door behind her.

Jehan laughs nervously. “So, that was my landlady.”

“I hypothesized as much.”

“She cooks very good dinners.” He shuts his eyes rapturously before patting Combeferre’s shoulder. “You must make sure to always compliment her.”

Combeferre feels heat rush to his face at the implication: that he would make many more visits to Jehan, ones that would require him to eat dinner there. “I will keep that in mind.”

Jehan nods, spots Combeferre’s essays, and folds them into a neat rectangle. “So, I trust that I have proved you are wrong to your satisfaction?” he says, putting them in Combeferre’s hand.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” Combeferre says, looking over the red-inked essays. Jehan’s handwriting is near-illegible and loopy, the sort that needs to be deciphered over several painstaking hours. “You’ve proved me one-thirds wrong.”

“Not nearly enough,” Jehan says, waving a hand in the air. Combeferre ignores his immediate urge to twine their fingers together and focuses on the essays.

“You cannot possibly believe all this,” he says, pointing at a sentence about the circular narrative and its benefits.

“Let me see,” Jehan says, reaching over and pulling Combeferre’s arm down to squint at the letters. “Ah. I may or may not have written that to spite you.”

“How about this?”

Jehan glances at the papers. “Oh no, I believe that, actually. You will just have to deal with it.”

Combeferre sighs. “Very well.”

“I will look forward to your answering write-ups,” Jehan says, and his hair catches the morning light, and Combeferre decides to make a move.

“Perhaps,” Combeferre says, taking a deep breath. “Perhaps we could do this again next week?”

“Of course,” Jehan says. “I’ll make the tea.”

**Author's Note:**

> The story of Bahorel and Jehan liberating Lancelot du Lac is in [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25708711)!


End file.
